Secret Keeper
by sir-hugalot
Summary: The memories cannot be shared, the secrets cannot be spilt, because the person keeping them is unable to do so. And that is why she visits.


**SECRET KEEPER.**

She has never liked hospitals. They are so clean and white - and while she has nothing against cleanliness, nor whiteness, she cannot stand the two combined in such quantities. No matter how many bright, green plants sit in pots, or elegant portraits on the walls, it will always be a place of death.

And now she enters one, bypassing the Welcome Witch and her queue because she knows where she is headed. The Janus Thickey Ward. She has been there before, but not enough for the staff to recognise her. That is her goal. She treasures her anonymity, because that is her only safety. She is not meant to be here.

Her heels clack loudly on the floor as she walks briskly down the corridor. She only wants to go in, and then go out. She cannot be seen here: it would raise too many questions that she didn't have answers for. She just needs to go in and go out, that is all.

The doorway looms before her, clean and white and foreboding. Inside lies not only patients who would, by the general public, be termed 'insane', but memories and secrets. The memories cannot be shared, the secrets cannot be spilt, because the person keeping them is unable to do so. And that is why she visits.

A Healer stands when she knocks on the door, putting down the book she had been reading to one of the patients. _Are you here to visit?_ She nods, crossing the room to sit by the bed she wants. In it lies a dark-haired man who has become gaunt and sallow-faced since his schooldays. The last time she saw him, before - well, before, he was lean and muscular; the perfect dueller. Now, his hair hangs limp and he seems so much smaller than he ever was when she knew him. She cannot bear to look at his wife. She has long ago come to terms with the fact that he has a wife - she does not care, anyhow. Why would she? She doesn't love him. She never did.

The signs of what has happened to them both are even more prominent in his wife; and she cannot look at her with the knowledge that it was her own flesh and blood, her own sister, that did this to her. To them both.

She fiddles with her hands on her lap, unsure where to look. She has made this visit many times, though it never gets easier. He has been asleep since she walked in, but now he opens his eyes, yawning and then blinking a few times. He looks straight ahead, not seeing the wisp of her blonde hair that has escaped from the tie that keeps it in a neat bun. She tucks it behind her ear, waiting for the moment he will turn towards her with a blank stare, looking past her and towards the window, perhaps. He won't see the window, either, but she does not know what he _does_ see. She has never figured it out, even after all this time.

The Healer watches her out of the corner of her eye, having finished reading. She doesn't ask why she is there, or what connection she has to the man in the bed. That is not her concern. She has seen this woman before, always visiting the same bed; she paid for the Healers not to ask questions, and so no one does. But she does notice the sadness that isn't quite repressed in the thin lines tracing across her forehead. They may be the same age, she reckons, but she goes back to her work - she has better things to do.

The woman watches the man in the bed, silent as he turns towards his wife, though he doesn't recognise her either. He looks a little like a small child, a dim smile on his face. What does he think of? A memory she does not share, no doubt. And then, at last, he faces her. His smile falters a little, and she cannot help but think he is really looking at her now, not the window. Perhaps he even-- no. He does not recognise her at all. That is ridiculous.

All the same, she cannot help the hope that bubbles within her, a tiny flicker of a flame long gone cold. If he would recognise her, perhaps...she didn't know what would happen, but it would be better than whatever was happening now.

He continues to stare, and she cannot help the flush that creeps up her neck as she stares back. Even if he is insane, she can still remember the last time they shared a glance - it was years and years ago now; a whole world away. He had looked at her with confusion, not understand why she was walking away - but it had been for the best in the end, she is sure of that. She is happy - she has Lucius, and a son who has just started Hogwarts.

She is happy, but what is he?

She can't answer that, can't bear to think about it as he continues to look at her. Neither he nor his wife speaks; she assumes they never will. She doesn't think of their son - it is another thing she can't do.

Her eyes had wandered from his face, finding a better subject in her carefully-filed nails. But now she forces them to flicker upwards, just for one more glance before she leaves for another few months. And she almost thinks he sees her and frowns. But he can't have, so he didn't. And she leaves without a word.


End file.
